A Pledge and a Darkness
by Taluliaka
Summary: Silence ringed us round, and the lateness of the hour and the silence of my impossible companion combined to half-convince me that this was some grotesque dream from which I should wake any moment. SH/HDM. Experimental one-shot.


****

A Pledge and a Darkness

* * *

********

Disclaimer:

_I do not own Sherlock Holmes, His Dark Materials, or any characters or situations therein._

_**Author's Notes: **It would seem some explanation is in order. For almost a full year now I have entertained the notion of introducing the characters of daemons from Pullman's series 'His Dark Materials' and placing them within a Holmesian plot, if only for my own entertainment. I have always been intrigued with the troubles which would surely come from having your soul manifested in the shape of an animal. And so, instead of updating 'A Feminine Influence' as I had intended, I found myself some hours later with this. My defense is that it could come from one of Holmes' cases for which the world is not yet prepared, in which Holmes and Watson find themselves, after some horrific event, seperated from their souls. It shall stand as a one-shot, but can be expanded if anyone asks. In any case, I hope it entertains you._

_

* * *

_FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.

The aftermath of this case, which seemed innocuous enough at its beginnings, threatens to engulf me. I am sitting writing a few poor words to myself at my writing desk in an effort to work my head around these amazing and singular events which have occurred over the past few hours. By my watch it is now past the eleventh hour, but I am far too keyed up to sleep, and I cannot help snatching glances at Arlene, for so she has styled herself, where she has laid herself upon our bearskin rug. I had thought she would be sleeping, but it seems the bonds between us are so strong that when I am wakeful so she must be, for her copper eyes are catching the flames of our dwindling fire. I wonder whether we could share thoughts, odd though it may seem, for in those alien eyes I can see something of myself- but that is too strange a notion to consider following further.

She is a bonny creature sure enough, her coat chestnut and sleek, her ears tipped with black and the tip of white on the end of her brush is as perfect as if it had been dipped into paint. She reminds me inexorably of my homeland, which is strange because for some years I have been happily ensconced in the heart of smoky London. It is those bright autumnal shades in her coat that are bringing the memories, fanning to a fire those long-buried pangs of longing for a home I have not set eyes upon since childhood.

From the little I can make of this business, it seems that I and this – manifestation – there is no other word for it as it is certain at least that she is no ordinary English fox, are bonded by the deepest of all possible connections: the soul. Here I must employ again the maxim of my dear friend: Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Improbable though it may seem for a thing so invisible as a soul to manifest itself in solid form, the fact remains that when she first appeared, the screaming pain that encompassed my entire being eased once I had staggered to within a few feet of her presence. The inexplicable emptiness, the soullessness I had experienced has shaken me rather completely, and it is only after a few stiff drinks that I have regained most of my nerves, and begun to think on the implications of being split so completely into two separate selves.

At least I am not in such dire straits as my companion, however. When Arlene first materialized out of the darkness, we had only just stepped from the platform onto our train to London, glad to leave so ghastly and inexplicable a business far behind us, and she had time to stow herself aboard, and so make her way down the compartments towards me. Holmes' manifestation, for lack of a better word, did not accompany her, and therefore was presumably left behind. My poor friend has been suffering for the greater part of nine hours with fits of pain and delirium, no doubt brought on by the expelling of his soul so violently and so far from his physical body. As I write, he lies mostly insensible upon the settee, shivering despite the blankets I have heaped over his thin frame, and wandering within some dark dreamscape that makes him cry out every so often.

I am nearly out of my mind with worry. Arlene has assured me that nothing more can be done, that since Holmes survived the original separation (leading him to collapse in a seizure as the train pulled away, scaring me half to death) there is every possible chance that he shall live. She has also informed me, in a voice oddly soothing, for it is cool and dark as a flowing stream, that every pain he feels is to be reflected equally upon his separated counterpart, and that this being will be expending all its efforts into finding its way to Baker Street as swiftly as possible to alleviate their combined suffering.

The poor fellow is beginning to groan again-I shall write later.

* * *

By my watch now the time is nearing to three in the morning, but I could not think of sleeping without penning the next part of this extraordinary saga – I have passed the stage of exhaustion completely and come to a stage of high alertness. Therefore I shall quickly sketch an outline of what has passed not more than an hour ago.

I had been sitting in one of the chairs pulled from our breakfast table, having feared that my padded armchair might send me involuntarily to sleep at the point where Holmes most needed my alertness and energy. As the midnight hour passed, he seemed to grow more restless in his movements, but could not seem to gain any form of consciousness further than a fluttering of the eyelids and a few incoherent murmurs. Arlene presently came and sat calmly by my side, sharing my watch with something akin to exasperated affection in her eyes as she watched my friend doze. Silence ringed us round, and the lateness of the hour and the impossibility of my silent companion combined to half-convince me that this was some grotesque dream from which I should wake at any moment. But the minutes ticked by, and the fire died down to glowing coals without any such interruption.

At last I rose, accepting the reality of the situation, and coaxed the fire into fresh life, disliking most deeply the deep shudders that were wracking my friend's prostrate body. He sweated and shivered wildly at the same time, as though in the grip of some mysterious fever, and no action on my part seemed able to stop the bizarre swings in temperature and the worrying comatose state. The one positive point about the entire matter seemed to me to rest upon the absence of Mrs. Hudson, who would certainly have objected in the strongest terms to a creature such as Arlene in our apartments, even had I been able to explain how inexorable our ties were. In any case, nothing at all changed with Holmes' condition until the clock struck two o'clock with a most melancholy chime which forced Arlene's ears flat to her skull in displeasure and shook me from a daze back to wakefulness. The chime, miraculously, seemed to break through to my friend, who at once began to struggle with the blankets that covered him. I leapt forward to aid him, and was horrified at the desperate expression that twisted his features.

His skin had the most appalling pallor, and his attempt to spring forth from his resting place caused him to reel forward weakly into my arms. His thin fingers twisted themselves into the fabric of my jacket, and I hope never to hear again the desperate gasps he emitted as he attempted to communicate his need.

"Outside….Watson…"

"Steady on, Holmes! Steady on old fellow, you're not well!"

"Must….I feel…please…_I beg of you_!"

I was torn most greviously, for despite his pleas, he was of no condition to leave our apartments, at least under his own power. His head sunk between his shoulders, and his fingers lost his grip on my forearms. It was clear just the effort of standing had robbed him of what little strength he had, and I was sick with fear at this discovery. Arlene, during this altercation, stood attentively at my feet, her tail swishing in agitation, and I realized that I could hear those same velvet tones which she had before employed.

"Do as he says, John. It may be our only chance to save him."

I looked down at her, and fear made my voice sharp.

"If I expose him to the outside air, he shall certainly sicken and die!"

"And if you do not, he shall die anyway. You can see as well as I his life ebbs. Trust me, John."

She seemed rather more affected than she had before, and I was surprised to find I was experiencing a desperate surge of anxiety and determination that set my heart to pounding within my chest. If we were indeed connected on so deep a frequency, the idea came into my head that maybe there could be a flow of empathetic emotions between us. That Arlene appeared to be as dismayed as I was at the prospect of losing Holmes finally broke my hesitation, and I half-carried him to the door, still enshrouded in blankets to counteract the chill which was settling outside. We made it to the street, abandoned and silent due to the late hour, and I stood irresolute, almost wholly bearing Holmes' weight in my arms as he was incapable. Mist swirled through Baker Street, making the buildings loom as half-formed shadows. I felt a sudden urge for my revolver, and the presentiment of some awful danger coming down on us unseen through the night.

At my feet Arlene let out a shrill bark of warning, her fur standing all one edge, and in the same moment Holmes gasped in my arms and pushed himself away from me, staggering away across the road. He fell after a few paces, but I had scarcely taken one step in the direction of my ailing friend before a dark shape caught my eye. It was coming out of the mist and the darkness, heading straight for Holmes with the easy stride and silent footsteps of the hunter. I could not make it out clearly, but the sight turned my heart to water and I sprang forward, yelling and waving my arms, attempting to frighten the beast into turning. However, my path was swiftly blocked by Arlene's low-slung body. She pressed against my ankles, warm and quivering, preventing my advancing another pace.

"Easy, John. I should not have you interfere for the world. And neither of them will thank you for it."

"Them?" I could not help gaping, unable to reconcile the situation within my mind. But as I watched, the two figures met, half-hidden by shadows and swirling fog. There was no roar or scream however, no sound of rending flesh, and I began at last to dimly grasp the truth. So this was the beast that housed my friend's soul, and that had travelled so swiftly from the wilderness to reunite with him. I could see Holmes' tense frame relax beneath the blanket, which he now shifted to a somewhat more stable position about his shoulders. The great animal to whom he was bound sat silently before him, its profile half-melted by the wisps of fog. I can still see them in my mind's eye quite clearly, two creatures silhouetted in darkness in a meeting so startling and private that no mortal eye should attempt it.

I turned away, finally, following Arlene's example, who was now sitting primly, brush tucked firmly about her dark feet, copper gaze piercing the darkness in the opposite direction to where Holmes and his manifestation were meeting. It was some little time before I heard footsteps muffled by the fog ring out, and turned to meet Holmes, still pale but with the spark of life back within his grey eyes, and the great black cat which paced at his heels, yellow eyes gleaming like candles in the gloom. I recognized it immediately as being a panther, normally found only in the darkest jungles of Africa, faint silver patches gleaming beneath the rippling muscles covered with dark fur. It was a strange picture indeed we created stepping back into our rooms, two strangely-clad gentlemen and two wild beasts moving tamely at our heels. I made sure to close the drapes to dissuade any curious onlookers, and avoiding the strange yellow gaze of Holmes' companion, ordered him at once to take to his bed, and sleep off the remainder of his weakness. This he acquiesced to with barely a murmur, and he has been within his rooms, presumably sleeping, for the past forty minutes. The great cat accompanied him, much to my relief, and with Arlene curled again upon the rug, I have attempted to write some account of the affair before snatching some much needed rest myself.

Note: Since this writing I have received word from Holmes himself, having recovered from his exertions, that the cat has chosen the name Malise or 'darkness' for herself, supposedly in honour of their first meeting. After some little research, I have discovered that Arlene means 'pledge' in the ancient Gaelic tongue, though why such a name seemed appropriate to her she has not seen fit to tell me. Mysteries within mysteries.

* * *

_Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed._

_Thanks, **Taluliaka.**_


End file.
